


Palabras

by kishiberohan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Relationships, Late 1800s, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Wild West AU, sort of.. it's 1876, this is going to be quite lengthy after the initial chapters buckle your seatbelts kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishiberohan/pseuds/kishiberohan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 1876, two rather interesting phenomena occurred. One, it was a leap year. Two, an outlaw and a ronin crossed paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ronin

**Author's Note:**

> I watched 3:10 to Yuma a few days ago. While this story will bear little resemblance to that film as a whole, it got me thinking. McCree in a Wild West setting? Duh. Hanzo in this same setting, somehow? Obviously. I'm putting a lot of planning and research into this, so hopefully you'll all stick around!
> 
> General lore applying to Overwatch still applies, it's just twisted around so that it'll fit into an 1876 Southwest American setting.

Blood stained his fingertips; stained each of their fingertips, pooling at his feet. His yumi clattered to the floor as he sank to his knees, awe and disgust dancing in his pupils.

 Hanzo attempted to speak, but he found that no words came from his throat apart from a strange, choked cry, a sort of sound he found to be rather animalistic upon later reflection on the matter.

 He did not weep, however.

 

* * *

 

_“It is your duty, Hanzo.”_

  _He twitched, swiveling around on the balls of his feet to face the clan elders once more. Hanzo remained silent as they spoke._

  _A collective look of pity—was it condescension? — was given to the elder Shimada son. “Your.. brother.. Is out of control. You must correct his ways, or…”_

  _Or.. as in else?” Now Hanzo spoke up. There was an icy edge to his words as he stared unblinking in their wrinkled faces. “Or else what?”_

  _A solemn nod from the centermost. “You already know.”_

 

* * *

 

 Repulsive.

 Despicable.

 That he would stoop so low as to commit fratricide, in order to appease his clansmen? Were the words of his father meaningless to him? Hanzo contemplated this over a bottle of brew, Western by the looks of it. Decidedly bland.

 It was coming on to ten years after the fact, and Hanzo was little more than an aging vagabond at this point. Tired lines decorated his sharply-cut face, gray hair somewhat-prematurely forming at his temples and peppering his beard. He supposed it was a byproduct of stress, but Hanzo ultimately thought little on the activities of his hair follicles.

 It was approaching sunrise, he noted from the way the sky was slowly becoming purple, the first rays of sunlight due to peek out from behind the clouds in little over an hour’s time. He’d have thought it quite beautiful had it not been for his long-anticipated headache finally showing itself.

 He cursed and took another swig of his drink. Swill, more like. How he had gotten to this, this _dive_ , was beyond him; Hanzo Shimada, son of Saizo Shimada, in a dark and decrepit tavern that smelled of piss and stale beer, wasting away next to people that were more likely to be violent criminals and overall unsavory individuals than men merely down on their luck.

_As if you aren’t one of them._

 One thing was clear to Hanzo in that moment, and it was that he had to leave.

 Many a time had he contemplated running himself through, and it was an idea that was certainly prominent in his thoughts at the moment, but he supposed that that method of departure must be ruled out.

 No, he had to truly find his peace. Monks of the Shambali monastery were rumored to be arriving in Hanamura in the coming days. Hanzo, however, wasn’t planning on forgoing his already-limited worldly pleasures in favor of enlightenment. At least, not anytime soon.

It was then that he set down his glass and all but flung coins at the bartender as payment before stalking out of the establishment, the chilly night air eliciting a shiver from the ronin. Perhaps it had been the wrong choice to wear a robe baring half of his chest.

 The streets, predictably, were void of any life save for a rather odd-looking old man fiddling with his thumbs. Or.. were they even _his_ thumbs? Hanzo didn’t know what kind of neighborhood this was, and resolved to turn around and head in the opposite direction. The smell of the sea greeted him as he came closer to the harbor, the shipyard slowly coming alive as the sky advanced to a red-tinted array of clouds.

“Excuse me? Sir?”

 Hanzo was shaken out of his contemplative reverie by a shrill-voiced young man, a foreigner from the looks of it. Probably a Spaniard, judging from his accent. Hanzo coughed, slightly embarrassed. He hoped that his cheeks didn’t show it. “Yes. I am.. This sir.”

 The Spaniard looked confused. “R-right… what’s your business here?”

 “I am merely going for a walk,” Hanzo replied curtly, finally managing to salvage his normally cool demeanor. “There is no problem with this, correct?”

 “Well, no, but..” The foreigner scratched the back of his head. He had red hair. Fascinating. “There’s going to be a crowd here soon. A very big crowd. You might want to leave before they get here.”

 This served to pique the ronin’s interest. Normally, he wasn’t so talkative, but the alcohol in his system appeared to be doing its job. “A crowd? A crowd for what?”

 “There’s a boat leaving, sir. To America.”

 “America..”

 It wasn’t like his kind was welcomed here, anymore. Welcomed anywhere, really. He was a relic. A practitioner of a dying art.

 The foreigner nodded. “Yes, sir, America. California to be precise. Are you familiar with— “

 “Is there space on this boat?”

 A look of surprise had came over the foreigner’s face, though it soon became a smile.“Well, of course there is! For a price.”

 “I’ll take it.”

 The smile melted into a look of pure glee. He stuck out his hand to Hanzo, though returned it after the ronin merely stared at his wiggling fingers. “Heh.. we leave in two hours. Make sure you have all your belongings, alright, Mister…?”

 Hanzo did not answer, choosing instead to sit on a nearby bench, hands folded together. The Spaniard looked at him curiously before sighing and returning to his post. Samurai.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo made himself comfortable in his cabin, which he thankfully did not have to share with anyone. He didn’t know what he would have done if the screeching infant a few cabins down had been in his room.

Sighing, he removed the ribbon securing his hair and let it fall to his shoulders, leaning back into his bunk.

It would be a long voyage. He supposed he should rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ronin - a samurai with no master
> 
> hanzo is a former samurai. the samurai class was abolished with the meiji restoration, which began in 1868.
> 
> edit: fixed the spacing hahaha


	2. Outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet McCree.

_Now what the hell you got yourself into, Jesse, hm?_

_Pig shit._

McCree struggled fruitlessly against the rope binding his wrists, cursing under his breath. This was a damned setup, that’s what he had gotten himself into, a dirty, rotten, setup! He spit on the floor and glared under the brim of his hat at his captors.

“Well, lookee here, boss man, we’ve gotten ourselves the gen-yoo-wine Deadlock Jesse McCree himself bitin’ his tongue here before us!” A toothless old man gawked in McCree’s face, which earned him a tobacco-filled loogie in his own. He growled and made as if to harm the man before he was stopped by a gunshot in the air.

“I ain’t Deadlock no more, _viejo_ ,” McCree spat after the smoke had dispersed, earning another shot in the air. He didn’t wince, instead groaning internally at the sight of the shot’s source.

“Or Blackwatch, for that matter..,” he muttered under his breath, cursing again.

Of course it had to be fucking Reyes.

Or Reaper, _La Muerte_ , _Pendejo_ , whatever the hell he was calling himself these days. Either way, he was decked from head to toe in black and white apparel, might as well have painted himself like a _calavera_. Reyes was grinning at him, too. Creepy fuck.

McCree shot daggers at his former boss. “The hell do you want?”

“Just wanted to see an old friend,” Reyes practically purred—disgusting—as he waved his shotgun around like a damned maniac. “How’s my favorite student?”

“Pfft. Ain’t you got a farm boy to be fuckin’?”

That one earned him a kick in the gut, but he only snickered at Reyes’ anger. The older man hissed, grabbing McCree by the collar and pulling him upwards, their noses nearly touching. McCree could smell his lunch on his breath. “Listen here, cowboy,” Reyes growled, shaking him for emphasis, “you’ve got a price on your head, and I aim to claim it. Got it?”

McCree laughed again. “Thousands of dollars on my head, hundreds after me, and you think you’re gonna be the one t’ do it, eh, _La Llorona_? Well, have at it, then. My hands, as you can see,” he wriggled his wrists against the rope, “are tied.”

 

* * *

 

The click-clack of the wagon’s wheels was maddening. It was stuffy inside the cabin, too, and Reyes smelled like shit on top of it. McCree was silently thankful that he wasn’t the odorous one this time.

They had taken his musket from his pocket, which was honestly one thing that he was grateful for. He’d lost his Peacekeeper awhile back, and had had to make do with that.. That ancient relic. He missed his modified single action army.

He decided to break the silence. “So, uh, where we headed?” McCree flashed a grin in Reyes’ direction, who cocked an eyebrow in amusement. “Puerto del Sol.”

“Puerto del Sol, eh?” Nice enough town, he supposed. He used to pass through there during his days with the Deadlock Gang.. many a drunken night was spent in the motel there. Hopefully the townsfolk wouldn’t remember him pissing on the wall of the mayor’s office.

Reyes nodded, gloved hands absentmindedly loading and unloading the shotgun in his lap. “They want $500 for you. Should fetch me a new horse.”

That got a snort out of McCree. “Since when do you buy anything? What’s your real angle?”

Reyes rammed the butt of his shotgun into McCree’s knee, earning a yelp from the former outlaw. Yeah, he probably deserved that one. He was a prisoner, after all, and he _was_ in a carriage-wagon with a bunch of shady armed men. Not even taking into account his bastard of an ex-boss.

“Listen, here, Jesse, you’re going to shut your damn mouth for once, alright?” Reaper seethed. “Remember that the bounty says ‘dead or alive’, cowboy. I’d recommend you to keep that in mind.”

McCree responded by hocking a loogie in Reyes’ face. Reyes looked stunned, his eyes wide open, cheeks slowly reddening in anger before he—

He didn’t get to do anything. Reyes’ hands were halfway to McCree’s neck when the door of their carriage burst open, a revolver finding its way to  Reyes’ temple. McCree whistled and looked at his savior through the doorway. Why, it was none other than..

“If it ain’t the Lady Lacroix herself,” McCree drawled. “How’re you doin’, sugar?”

“Silence,” Lacroix warned, pulling back on the hammer of her— wait a second, that was _his—_ revolver. She turned her attention back to the man with the gun against his head. “Reyes, you’re off trail.”

Reyes grimaced. “I’m what?”

“The cargo is meant to arrive in Puerto del Sol. You’re currently en route to Jasper.”

McCree whipped his head around, hair flying wildly as he did so. “Cargo? Who the hell ya callin’ cargo?”

“Silence!”

McCree bit his tongue. He wasn’t about to argue with a woman with a gun.

Lacroix narrowed her eyes at Reyes. “Again, you are en route to Jasper. What are you planning to do with the cargo, Reyes?”

Reyes and Lacroix then had a silent exchange with their eyes, both of which darted back and forth between the other and McCree, who rolled his own eyes, sighing. “Alright, enough of this shit.”

It should be reflected on, then, that during his outlaw days, McCree was quite rowdy. Rowdy enough that he had lost a limb during a rather disastrous excursion involving dynamite, an incident that could have been avoided had he not been trying to show off to his friends. Juggling lit dynamite, seriously? Not the wisest decision in retrospect. Anyway, following this tragic occurrence, McCree had, through the connections and intimidation of the Deadlock gang, acquired a new, fully operational, mechanical limb. It was right creepy, and he often tried to cover it up, but in this case it was fully exposed in all of its blunt, metallic glory.

That being said, McCree quickly smacked Reyes on the head with his bound wrists, startling Lacroix, who dropped her— _his, damn it, that was his Peacekeeper!_ — gun, which gave him the window to shove past her and leap out of the cabin. He rolled on the floor and, through skill that had only been acquired from being in several similar situations, got back onto his feet, searching for a sharp object to cut his bindings on. It was upon landing on the dirt that he noticed it was night out, and most importantly? Lacroix had appeared to be working alone. No henchman in sight; only the unconscious (dead?) bodies of Reaper’s henchman on desert ground. It was then that he spotted a saw sticking out of the chest by the driver’s seat. How awfully convenient.

Lacroix and Reyes still appeared to be in shock, so he set to work on whittling away his bindings on the saw. “C’mon, Jesse, you’ve done this before,” he muttered to himself, careful not to cut his remaining flesh arm. It was then that he heard a curse behind him and instinctively ducked down, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the head at the hands of Lacroix. He began sawing even more fervently, finally breaking free just as she turned the corner around the wagon.

He set his newly-freed hands in the air, a nervous grin on his face as she advanced on him, pistol cocked. “Now now, Miss Lacroix, let’s not be hasty—”

“Sacrebleu! Just shut your mouth, McCree, before I do it for you,” she threatened, stepping closer. “You’re going to be coming with me, and we’re going to Puerto del Sol. _Comprenez_?” She motioned to her pony, which neighed as if on cue.

“Now, darlin’, a horseback ride with you? Wouldn’t miss it for the world, necessarily,” McCree crooned, flashing one of his charming smiles at her. It didn’t work. “But right now? I’m gonna have t’ ask you to hand over my gun and let me run right out of here. Sound good?”

Lacroix laughed at that; a chilling, humorless sound. “You are quite the comedian, Jesse McCree. What exactly makes you think  that I’ll let you free?”

McCree answered that question by lunging at the woman, effectively wrestling her to the ground. Southern chivalry be damned; he needed his Peacekeeper, and her pony would be mighty useful in his escape. Hopefully Reyes was still out cold.

She cursed and attempted to throw off the much heavier McCree, but to no avail. He simply smiled and snatched his gun out of her grip, returning it to his holster. “Been lookin’ for this. Had to use a damn musket for the past two weeks, you can’t even imagine.” He climbed off of her and tipped his hat, his smile widening as he mockingly blew a kiss. “Toodles.”

Lacroix was too flabbergasted to move from her position on the floor, and could only watch helplessly as McCree hopped onto her pony and rode off. She cursed her own incompetence and slammed a gloved fist on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viejo - old man  
> la muerte - term for the grim reaper  
> pendejo - idiot  
> la llorona - "the weeping woman", a myth in which a ghostly woman haunts the southwest (most prominently mexico) crying for her drowned children  
> calavera - sugar skull
> 
> comprenez - you got it? (lit. "comprehend")
> 
> mccree, obviously, is latino here, specifically mexican. i just thought it was appropriate considering historically cowboys have been predominantly people of color (hollywood is famed for its whitewashing)
> 
> widowmaker and reaper are going to be problems throughout


	3. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seafood, street urchins, and stagecoach kidnappings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay! Ran into some technical issues, as well as just plain ol' real life stuff gettin' in the way. I'll try to maintain a weekly schedule from here on out.
> 
> This chapter's the one where the train starts a-chuggin. Title's from a Rolling Stones song.
> 
> note: fixed a break error lol

Hanzo’s eyes flew open at the sound of a crash above deck. The crash was accompanied by some shouting and the pitter-patter of footsteps, though it ultimately appeared to resolve itself within a few minutes. A barrel must have knocked over. Nothing to concern himself with.

He however found that he could not return to his slumber, and with a sigh looked around his cabin for items to entertain himself with. The moonlight pouring in from the porthole provided ample light for this, thankfully, revealing some hooks along the wall, rope on the floor, a small desk. Rather barebones, but it served its purpose. He grumbled and lifted himself out of his cot. Surely there’d be something to preoccupy himself with. For once, he felt quite antsy.

Slipping out of the cabin, he made his way past the rows of other residencies and clambered up the stairs, nodding to some of the ship’s crew along the way. The majority of them were Japanese like himself, traders most likely, though a few white men he assumed were Spaniards like the man at the docks were peppered in here and there. Salted in would be a more apt description, really.

The smell of rotting fish greeted the ronin’s nostrils as he stepped onto the ship’s deck. He wrinkled his nose. Trying his damndest to ignore the stench, he strode past the barrels he must have heard crashing earlier, a few scratches and dents peppering the wood. Must have been tossed. Perhaps the crew had been making a game out of jumping over them.

Hanzo did not initially hear the man who had walked up to him, and flinched when he felt a finger tapping on his shoulder. “Who— “

“Sir!” The same man who had sold him the boat tickets was standing before him. He relaxed, somewhat. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

 _You should be,_ he thought. “What do you need?”

“It’s just..” the man scratched the back of his head shyly. “I never got your name.”

“My name is not important,” Hanzo reflexively spat. “You would do well not to ask further.

The Shimada clan were well-known throughout Japan, and there were many agents that had seeked to undo them. As if he hadn’t been doing a good enough job of that himself.

_Or as if Genji hadn’t._

He shook the thought of his brother away. No, there were many who would love to see the Shimada heir’s head on a pike, and while he was more than capable of defending himself against any would-be attackers, Hanzo would much prefer to not stir up any trouble on this voyage. His tattoo was already a hint, he didn’t need to wear a nametag.

The man seemed to recline into himself. “O-Oh. I’m sorry for bothering you, then.” He waddled off to the stern of the ship, likely to busy himself with whatever it is a crewman does. Hanzo had no interest in such things. He had no interest in making friends. He was on this ship for passage, and passage only. Such frivolities were unnecessary, and it would be silly of him to strike up a friendship with people that he would never see again once he set foot on the American mainland.

….Though, on the other hand, he supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to lie about his name. And he had been rather rude to the poor boy.

Perhaps it was time to turn a new leaf.

He shouted uncharacteristically in the general direction that the crewman had wandered off to. “Wait!”

Almost immediately the red-headed man was running towards him and then— was he saluting? “Yes?”

“You asked for my name. I apologize for shooing you away so rudely. My name..,” he paused for a half-second, pulling the first name that came out of his head, “is Takashi.”

An uneasy smile from the sailor. “Wonderful! It’s wonderful meeting you, Takashi, sir. My name is Raul.” And with that, the seaman bid him goodbye, returning in the direction from which he came, but with a noticeably less glum aura about him. Foreigners were quite strange.

Hanzo swiveled around to make his way to the ship’s bow. He leaned against the foremast and sighed, rubbing his temples. The sun shone in his face, aggravating his head ache; it must be about noon. It was then that Hanzo realized that he had missed breakfast, his stomach grumbling on cue. At least the galley chef would be ringing his bell soon, though if he was being honest, he wasn’t exactly keen on chowing down on the first of what would be many yellowtail fish.

* * *

Hanzo’s days on the ship melted into a routine that made the time pass quickly, with minimal social interaction, scheduled meals, and scheduled walks along the deck of the ship. He spoke less than 10 words daily with few exceptions, which earned him an uneasy reputation among the other passengers. Those who had caught sight of his tattoo had whispered that he was yakuza, advising others to stay away from him. They weren’t wrong, he supposed, but he had long since abandoned that life since.. The incident.

As for Raul, the man actually spoke minimally to Hanzo, and the small exchanges with him took up the majority of total words spoken on the entire trip. Everyone else avoided him like the plague. It was better that way, anyway; the fewer people that he made connections with, the fewer people who would put the pieces together and attempt to take his life. Not that he would let them, of course, but it was quite convenient to not have to worry about.

Thus, when the mainland was spotted over the horizon one dewy afternoon, he was secretly overjoyed. Frankly, the people on this ship were plain, and altogether unpleasant, in his opinion; surely the people of America would be a bit more stimulating. A bit.

* * *

 

The people of America were roughly the same as, if not insurmountably worse than, the other passengers of the ship.

 He had been off the boat for one hour when, while inspecting the inventory of some seaside shopkeeper, he was practically assailed by street urchins tugging on his clothing. Their dirt-smeared faces attested to them likely not having any money, which is what they were likely to be babbling so rapidly about at his feet. Hanzo grumbled and dug into his travelling bag, producing a few coins. Japanese coins, but he supposed that these children didn’t know the difference.

“Here,” he hissed, shoving the coins into the hands of the tallest child, “Now leave me.”

The English words felt awkward in his mouth; he was silently thankful that his father was insistent on he and his brother’s learning of Perry’s jargon, but it did not mean that he appreciated the way that the language made his tongue feel like lead.

“You talk funny,” the child said, as if he had read Hanzo’s mind. He grit his teeth, but decided to humor the child.

“I am from a different country.”

The child’s eyes widened in awe. “Coun-try?” It was as if he hadn't heard the word before. "That like, somewhere other than here?"

Hanzo couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Judging by the fact that the child was begging for money on the street, rather than being in a school setting, he likely didn’t even know that there were other continents. He sighed, and nodded. “Yes. I am from what you Americans refer to as Japan.”

“Oh, wow, that’s cool! Hey, what’s it like in, uh, 'Japan'?” Another child had spoken up.

“Considerably more quiet. Less small children pestering their elders.”

The eldest urchin pouted, crossing his arms. “Alright, then, Mr. _Japanican_ man, then how— “

“Takashi!”

Never before had Hanzo been so grateful to hear that ear-piercing voice calling his fake name. He murmured a farewell to the street urchins and rushed over to Raul, bowing his head slightly in thanks.

“Thank you for calling me,” he murmured. “I was worried that I would part with my entire fortune.”

Raul gave him a confused look. “You.. do realize that Japanese currency and American currency is different, _si_?”

“I am not a fool. I realize this. However, I have in my possession coins from the Bakumatsu period, which are composed of gold and thus have international worth.” Hanzo shook his bag for emphasis, the jingling of the coins like bells at a festival. Ah, festivals. He supposed that that would be one thing he’d miss. “But never mind that. What is it that you require?”

“I was wondering if you needed any help getting around?” Raul scratched the back of his head. “As in, do you have a destination? Are you going to just amble around?”

Hanzo paused. He supposed that his primary objective _was_ to just amble around until he achieved his goal, which was finding his place in the world. His place certainly wasn’t in Meiji Japan, so it wasn’t too ridiculous to think that he’d find a purpose in America. It was supposedly the land of opportunity, from what information he had pieced together by listening in on conversations on the boat. Perhaps his purpose in life was to be a farmhand. Or maybe a factory worker.

Whatever it was, he aimed to discover it.

“I suppose that I do not have a specific destination in mind,” Hanzo admitted, putting his hand to his chin. “I do not really know what there is to do in America. Work or recreation. You travel, so surely you know?”

Raul was a ship’s hand, so he should know about the customs of other countries. If he didn’t, then what kind of traveler would he be?

Raul, thankfully, did know. “Well, if you’re looking for work, there’s always a ranch that’ll need workers. Careful though, they’re kind of… picky, about the _type_ of people who work for them, if you understand me.”

“I do not.”

“Uh, you.. Never mind.” The Spaniard waved both of his hands, as if shooing away the conversation. “If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty in a different sort of way, bounty hunting is rather common around here.”

Hanzo cocked an eyebrow. “Bounty hunting?”

“Yes, bounty hunting,” Raul confirmed, nodding. “The United States still has yet to establish much order in the West, unfortunately, which is why most of these towns are so rickety and dirty.” He gestured to the buildings and stands around them, which did look as if they’d been hurriedly pieced together and dusted with a fine layer of dirt. “Therefore, there are.. Undesirables that, rather than law enforcement actively pursuing them, have a price put onto their heads.” Raul paused, as if to see if Hanzo was still listening, which he was.

“Go on.” Hanzo crossed his arms.

He nodded again. “What you do is take the criminal, either dead or alive, then turn him in for a sum that fits whatever crime he did. You’re going to need the paper saying that there’s a bounty, though. Otherwise you’re just a murderer.”

“Hmph, not much of an issue, then,” Hanzo murmured under his breath. If Raul had caught it, he had chosen not to acknowledge it. “Very well. Show me these papers.”

“ _Aye_!” Raul’s voice, if that was even possible, raised an octave higher. “You’re telling me you’d actually do that?!”

“Why, of course. What is the matter?” Hanzo cocked his head. “It is legal, according to you. The men in question broke the law. And you said it was dead or alive, correct?”

“Y-Yes..”

“Then what is the issue?”

Raul scratched his face. “Well, it’s just that bounty hunters are a bit of an.. Ah, I forgot the English word… _unsavory_ lot, yes?” He looked a bit nervous, which led Hanzo to wonder if Raul had had any previous bad experiences with bounty hunting. It couldn’t have been that bad, considering that the man stood before him in one piece. “I.. do not think you would approve of them. They are almost as monstrous as the men they hunt.”

Hanzo scoffed. “I can take care of myself.” He looked down his nose at Raul, which was quite the task, considering he was shorter than the other man. “I do not know if you have noticed the _yumi_ slung over my back, but it is not there for decoration.”

“You’re… going to use a bow?”

Raul was looking at him as if he were ridiculous. Hanzo responded by looking him dead in the eye and nodding.

“Okay, then.. I guess you know what you’re doing.” Raul scratched his head again. He was awfully itchy, that boy. He pointed a skinny finger to one of the rickety buildings a stone's throw away from the market, the front of which was labelled “SHERIFF” in fresh bright-white paint. “That’s the Sheriff’s office. They usually have a few wanted signs put up in there, if you’re really serious about that.. Business.”

“I am,” Hanzo huffed, still all but glaring at Raul. “You would do well to end your attempts to deter me.”

“ _Si, si._ It’s just— “

“This is where we part, then. It was nice meeting you,” Hanzo said firmly, nodding to the other man. He did not wish to spend any more time hearing about bounty hunting being dishonorable, or whatever it was that Raul was trying to tell him. “Perhaps we will cross paths once again. Good day.”

Hanzo didn’t wait for Raul’s reply before he turned around and headed in the direction of the sheriff’s office, hair scarf flapping in the wind. Bounty hunting would put his combat education to work, at least. He knew where to strike and incapacitate a target like the back of his hand.

He adjusted his bow and pushed open the door to the sheriff’s office, though he wouldn’t really consider it a door. Or an office.

It was clear that the purpose of this building had been pushed upon it fairly recently, given the fact that it more closely resembled a sort of tavern than the residence of a lawmaker. That would also explain open paint buckets shoved into the corner, the papers flying through the air, and the flushed face of the man whom he assumed was the sheriff. He had to be. He had a great big star that said sheriff on his jacket breast.

Hanzo didn’t have to open his mouth before the man ambled over to him and pulled a wad of papers out of his jacket pocket, shoving them towards Hanzo. “Y’must be here fer a fishin’ permit. Well, there y’ are, now git and fill them forms out, n’ don’ even think ‘bout comin’ back until they are. Think there’s a pen over yonder. I got enough of a mess to deal with without worryin’ ‘bout more stuff t’ file. Y’ even understan’ what I’m sayin’? English?”

Hanzo scowled, gently pushing the man’s hand away. “Yes, I speak English. Perhaps even better than you do.” He bit back _gaijin_ . Here, if anything, he was the _gaijin_.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, then whaddya want?” The sheriff stuffed the papers back into his pocket and crossed his arms. “Make it quick, I jus’ got here, n’ I’ve gotta get all this shit fixed up ‘fore I gotta start doin’ real business.”

“Bounties. I wish to know if there are any.”

“Ya one’a them cowboys then?” He whistled, looking Hanzo up and down. “Sure don’ look like one. Ah, whatever, dunno why you came ‘ere from wherever but it ain’t any o’ my beeswax. There’s some’n that pile there yonder,” he pointed a thumb to the southern corner of the room, “do me a favor n’ put back any papers y’don’ take.”

Hanzo nodded in response and made his way past the sheriff, taking care not to trip over the various boxes and piles of junk scattered around the floor. Were all Americans this disorderly?

He found the pile that the sheriff had referred to and knelt down, sorting through the various illustrations of criminals.

**HUCK “DICARLO” GLASTONBURY, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, $5000. ROBBERY AND MURDER.**

A drawing of a man with a large mustache was in the center of the paper, along with his height, description, age, and last known whereabouts. He set this aside.

**ENRICO VARGAS, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, $2000. MURDER.**

This man could not have been more than 20. And he was bone-thin. How he had managed to survive in such an arid territory, let alone kill a man, was beyond Hanzo. He also set this aside.

**AMELIE “WIDOWMAKER” LACROIX AND GABRIEL “REAPER” REYES, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. $15,000 EACH. MULTIPLE COUNTS OF MURDER, ROBBERY, AND DESTRUCTION OF PRIVATE PROPERTY.**

The paper further specified that they appeared to be a part of a larger gang, known as “Talon”, though they were the only members known. The pictures of the criminals were actual daguerreotype photographs rather than illustrations, which served to further stimulate Hanzo’s interest. The woman, this “Widowmaker”, appeared to be wearing fine articles of clothing, suggesting an upper-class origin, while the man was wearing what seemed to be an American military officer’s outfit, if Hanzo’s memory of Commodore Perry’s description was adequate. How they had fallen to a life of crime from otherwise noble origins was puzzling, but he didn’t dwell on it.

He pocketed the paper and decided that he would take a fourth, rifling through the wanted posters as if he were picking from a row of candies.

**JESSE MCCREE, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. $10,000. MURDER, SMUGGLING, AND PUBLIC INDECENCY.**

Hanzo, despite himself, snorted at the last offense. Public indecency? Had the man run around nude? What a strange thing to put a bounty on someone for. He studied the illustration of this Jesse McCree, noting the fact that the artist had bothered to add petty blemishes and a tint to his teeth. This man was well-disliked, it seemed. Hanzo folded the paper and placed it with the others in his pocket, standing up.

“My business here is done,” he announced, bowing to the sheriff. “Thank you. I will return soon.”

The sheriff waved his hand, preoccupied with arranging various knick-knacks on his desk. “Yeah, yeah, go on, git. Don’ come back ‘til I see one’a them lowlifes dragged in by their toes.”

Hanzo exited the building and inhaled, then exhaled. It was time to get to work.

* * *

 

“You wanna go where?”

Hanzo squinted at the paper before him. “It says here that the last-known whereabouts of this Glastonbury was the town of Joad, Arizona.” Hanzo winced. “I hope that I am pronouncing those correctly. You are able to take me there?”

The man in the driver’s seat of the wagon peered at Hanzo from under his hat, chewing on the buckwheat between his lips thoughtfully. “So long as you’re able t’ pay me, I reckon I could take ya through the gates of hell.”

“Ah, yes, payment,” Hanzo held up a single finger, using his other hand to dig through his bag for the remainder of his coins. “These are Japanese coins from the Bakumatsu period, before the shogunate was disposed of. They are made of gold. I trust you will find some use for them, though they are.. Out of fashion, so to speak.” He produced a handful from the bag, holding them out to the driver. “I also have Yen, but I do not know if you would value paper notes as much.”

“I wouldn’t. Hand over them coins, Mr. Samurai.”

“I am a ronin.”

“Whatever.”

Hanzo, slightly huffy, complied and handed the man the coins. The driver gestured with his head for Hanzo to get into the carriage and he did so, careful to latch the door shut behind him. He thankfully didn’t have to share the small, enclosed space with anyone else. He had room to put his bow down across from him, which was good, because he had no idea how far away Joad, Arizona was, and he did not wish to spend the entire trip with his bow digging into his backside.

He decided to make himself comfortable, leaning his forehead against the glass pane of the cart and listening to the “Hyah!” from the driver as the horses began to gallop. It was very quickly that the town he had departed from became little more than a speck on the horizon, and the landscape outside of the wagon rapidly shifted from grassy to dusty and dotted with cacti. It was beautiful, in a stark sort of way. The sun began its descent as time went on, and he found his eyelids drooping before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Of course. Of course, it’d be just his luck that he’d wake up to his carriage driver being gone. Really, he deserved this after all he’s done. Hanzo found himself hoping that he had at least left his coins somewhere nearby.

The ronin stood with both hands clutching his bow before the carriage, surveying the site. It appeared that in his sleep the carriage driver had set up a camp, probably because it was dark out and thus, mighty difficult to navigate through mountain ranges. The fire was still going, suggesting that the carriage driver’s departure had been recent, though he saw no footsteps in the dirt indicating the direction in which he had taken off, other than.. Horseshoe imprints? But the wagon’s horses were still attached to the cart. Curious. It was almost as if the man had vanished into thin air.

Why only the carriage driver? Why was Hanzo still there?

Hanzo supposed that he should be grateful that whatever forces took the carriage driver had left him alone, or perhaps had just ignored him altogether. The driver did look a  bit seedy. Perhaps he had a bounty out on him? He didn’t recall seeing the man’s face in any of the papers he went through back at the sheriff’s office.

Suddenly very wary, Hanzo found himself backing up against the wagon, ears keening for any noises aside from the crackle of the fire.

It was then that out of the corner of his eye he spotted a slight glint of metal, drawing his bow immediately. He pointed it in the direction of the shine and advanced forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. “You would be wise to leave this place,” Hanzo spat, inching forward a bit more. “Unless you would like to meet the _Shinigami_ on this day.”

“Shini- _what_ -now?” The voice was decidedly very smooth, though it had a low rumbling quality to it. Hanzo scowled and kept his bow drawn as the figure came forward, though he could not yet discern its features, other than the fact that it was tall and imposing.

Hanzo furrowed his eyebrows, his scowl deepening. “I said that you should leave, and yet you come closer? Do you have a death wish?”

“Nah, ain’t a death wish,” The figure finally came into the light, though a hat obscured any facial features for Hanzo to pick out. “More like.. I’m _insured_.” It sounded a bit more like a joke than a threat, but that glint of metal Hanzo had seen earlier wasn’t a trick of the light.

Oh, indeed, the man was “insured”, in the form of a silver-barreled revolver pointing at Hanzo’s heart. Shit.

Hanzo, if anything, tightened his grip on his bow, pulling back the string even further. “You think I am afraid of that hunk of metal?”

“If ya ain’t, shoot me.” Hanzo couldn’t see, but he could have sworn the man was grinning. “ I dare ya.”

Hanzo didn’t even respond before he changed the angling of his bow slightly and released his arrow, glaring as he did so. A low whistle was heard as Hanzo lowered his bow.

Hanzo had managed to shoot the man’s hat clean off, allowing for the glow of the firelight to reveal his bearded face to the ronin. The man’s smile looked extremely familiar, though Hanzo couldn’t quite place it.

“Well, would ya look at that!” A deep chuckle came from the man as he holstered his own weapon, the smile on his face almost infectious. “It’s a good thing ya missed, ‘cause I didn’t have any bullets, anyway.”

“You are foolish for arriving unprepared. And I did not miss.” Hanzo glared daggers at the man, who appeared entirely unphased by the dirty look he was being thrown. It was.. annoying.

The man stuck out his hand. “That was some fancy shootin’, anyway. You’re pretty good.” His grin, if it was even possible, widened.

“Name’s McCree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical clarification:
> 
> -Commodore Perry was a Navy officer who first journeyed to Japan in 1853 in an attempt to get the Tokugawa Shogunate to open the country's borders. His continued "persuasion" (read - threats) led to the signing of the Treaty of Nakagawa, requiring Japanese to rescue shipwrecked Americans and allow the country to trade with Japan. This eventually led to Japan's opening to the entirety of the Western world. Little history lesson for ya.
> 
> -The Bakumatsu period refers to the Edo period's final years, a.k.a. the last years before the Tokugawa shogunate was replaced by the Meiji.
> 
> -In 1873, it was ruled by the U.S. Supreme Court that bounty hunters were a part of the country's law enforcement system. Before then, though, it was common practice in the South/West area of the U.S. to put a bounty on a criminal rather than actively have law enforcement seek to imprison them themselves. Lots of western movies deal with this.
> 
> Vocab:  
> -yumi: japanese term for a bow (as in the kind that fires arrows)  
> -gaijin: japanese term for foreigner  
> -shinigami: japanese gods that appear to humans at their time of death
> 
> as always, comments/suggestions are very much appreciated!


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